


To Be Yours

by OpenEyes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Don't Have to Know Canon, I Don't Even Know, Light Bondage, M/M, May Turn into Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Military Homophobia, Oh My God, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics--Maybe, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEyes/pseuds/OpenEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU---Ordered to be part of the marriage alliance between the disputing countries of Exial and Marseil and spy on what Exial's true end-game is, Javert reluctantly obeys orders, but he never thought Valjean would be the one to step up and accept his hand.</p>
<p>With past enemies gathering, past wounds festering and secrets on both sides, how can a marriage and alliance help but be doomed from the very beginning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be ONE past rape scene at one point. It will not be between Javert and Valjean, no worries. Also, other tags may be added accordingly.
> 
> This is hopefully a little bit lighter of a fic than "Creation of a Man" that I will try to be writing simultaneously because I need something a little more light-hearted in my life. That being said, we'll see where this goes. 
> 
> Unbeta'd and I haven't even proofread yet, I'm just in the mood to write and post, so please forgive any errors and small changes may occur down the line!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

They stood on a raised-wooden platform above a small village square. It would be unfair to say that it had been hastily erected, treaty negotiations had been quarreled over for months and the platform stood at their heart. 

 

But then, no one thought the treaty would be signed in the end.

 

The planks were flush, though they moaned when walked upon. Some whispered it was an omen.  Early spring flowers dotted draping white and gold ribbons, baby’s breath for innocence, bittersweet for truth, cattails and yellow poppy for wealth and peace. Specimens that grew wild and abundant in the farmers’ fields.

 

All-in-all it was a pedestrian effort, though they watched with wide eyes as nobles and peasants alike met in the middle of the platform, in a small village whose only notable quality was being in the middle of the border of two bickering countries. In fact, the “dividing line” was the village’s square. Just a moment ago, the treaty had been signed, hands shaken, but that is not why they had gathered.

 

A young man stepped forward before the crowds, turning as he spoke to face them all in turn. Chestnut hair, freshly washed and glistening, thin, elegant hands waving excitedly, “Lords and Ladies, gentle monsieurs and mademoiselles, I do not need to tell you we have just witnessed a historic event! The treaty is signed and we hope that it benefits us in trade and wealth.” Here he paused amidst the cheers that followed. “That it allows us to travel more easily and end the fighting so that we do not worry for our loved ones.” Again, he waited for the cheers. “And many other promises for both our countries, but that it not why we are here today.” This time he shouted over the cheers, seeing movement begin in the crowd.” 

 

“We are here today because hearts know no borders between countries and there are weddings to be had!” 

 

The cheers swelled to a deafening roar from the gathered throats as he waved a priest that had been waiting to the side forward.

 

And that is why they had gathered. The treaty was, at is basest, a series of marriage alliances, noble and peasant who had volunteered to seal the alliance with their lives.

 

Peasants in their threadbare best of cotton and wool standing next to nobles in newly tailored cottons and silk and their guards, freshly slaughtered pigs spinning on their spits in the background, and equal with moonstruck smiles as their intended brides and grooms joined them. Many had met in the course of their trade and travels over the years. Others stood alone, having volunteered out of hope that there would be another who volunteered and accepted them for reasons other than love.  Some were widows or widowers, hoping for a parent for their child. Others old and lonely, looking for a companion. Some just young and stupid, hoping for an adventure.

 

But there was one man, standing on the far edge, who remained alone as one by one the others paired off and went to stand before the priest. He watched them go with a curl to his lip, especially the young man with chestnut hair and his cherubic, blonde bride. He had not trimmed his bristling whiskers and wore black, the solid color only broken if you caught a slice of his shirt beneath his greatcoat or the perfectly tied cravat around his neck.

 

He had “volunteered” as it were because he had been ordered to. Le Préfect Chambouillet did not believe in this attempt at a treaty and did not trust it.

 

_“They are all animals,” he swore, pacing before the fire in his office, “heathens and thieves, and we more the fools for falling into this obvious scheme. Go, Javert, volunteer, watch, listen and report back to me on what they are truly up too.”_

 

With great reluctance, Javert had bowed his head in obedience and salute, before leaving to gather his things for the journey.

 

Now he stood, ignored on the platform, and despite the sick feeling in his stomach from being unable to complete his directive if he did not marry and gain a cover to access more of Exial’s secrets among its people, relief began to trickle through his veins.

 

Until the young man looked up from his bride and noticed him, still standing alone.

 

He quickly strode over, calling, “Inspector Javert, I didn’t know you had volunteered. Has no one yet volunteered in kind?” He clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“No, Monsieur Gillenormand,” Javert answered flatly, “though I’m surprised your grandfather approves of your own participation in this.” He almost added farce to his sentence, but clicked his teeth shut on the word. Blunt, he may be, but he could sense political suicide after all these years in the police force.

 

The man waved his words away with a shudder, “Marius. My name is Marius. How many times have I said, Grandfather is the only one left in the family that wants to be Mr. or Mme. Gillenormand. It’s too much bother.” 

 

Abruptly turning back to the matter at hand, with all the impulsivity of youth, Marius turned back to the crowd and called, “Lords and Ladies, gentle monsieurs and mademoiselles, we still have a man waiting, will no one claim him?” There was a round of gentle laughter while Javert’s face burned in humiliation and he tore his shoulder from Marius’s grip, but no one stepped forward.

 

Marius’s face started to fall in disappoint when a hush fell for a commanding voice quietly sliced through the noise, “I will claim him.” 

 

Marius’s eyebrows shot into his hairline and his bride whipped around from her conversation with several other girls, a look of shock on her face, as onto the platform stepped a older gentleman with a small, amused smile gracing his face. As red as Javert’s face had been, now it grew pale. He knew that face, the scarred, calloused hands and mountain solid shoulders.

 

_Jean-le-Cric snarled when they tossed him back into his cell, back flayed and still bleeding sluggishly as drying salt water crystalized around the damage. The whippings did not deter his escape attempts, but they would at least slow him for awhile and let the guards’ own wounds heal after having to capture and wrestle him back to the prison. Taking a long, shallow breath, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, tilting his head at the guards still watching from the bars of his cell. Suddenly a guttural laugh escaped, the sound like the breaking and scraping of rocks in the quarry he spent his days. “One day,” he took another breath and forced himself to his feet, dropping his voice into a growl and gray eyes glowed in the torchlight. The guards unconsciously took a step back._

 

_“One day,” he repeated. “I will be free.” Someone scoffed. Jean-le-Cric bared his teeth. “You will be too slow. Too stupid and cruel. And I will be free. And then, then, I will have mine.” He lunged at the bars, biting back a gasp as the agony of his back tore through him._

 

_The guards flinched back, except for one._

 

_Javert had stood impassively and stared into the hate-filled eyes. He simply said, “You will never be free until you learn to obey the law,” spun on his heel and walked calmly away._

 

_Mere weeks later, when his back had healed, Le Cric had bent the bars of his cell in the dead of night and scaled down the prison walls, a feat that had been considered impossible with its smooth rock face and the sheer cliff below. They were sure he had died in the attempt, even with the note he had left behind on a scrap of cloth, promising, “I will have mine.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, let me start off by saying I never meant to abandon this. I've gotten a rough outline for most of it, but life got crazy right after I posted the first chapter and hasn't really stopped. 2 siblings died, I left the country, came back, mom died and it's just been death after death after death and now I'm moving 2500 miles, so yes, it's been insane. But while I haven't been much in the mind set for writing, I was working on this!
> 
> So, here's a chapter and hopefully things will finally settle down once the move is complete next month and updates will become an actual, regular thing.
> 
> That being said.... **THIS IS THE CHAPTER with the NON-CON/RAPE flashback** It is at the very end of the chapter and Please skip if this is an issue for you. This will be the only non-con scene although there will eventually be references to it.

 

“Papa!” the young bride’s cry brought Javert back to his present. He watched her stride across the platform, eyes searching her papa’s face. “You jest?”

 

The gentleman cupped her elbow and pulled her to his side, his smile broadening. He kissed her curls. “Why must I jest, little one? You have grown and I’ve grown used to company at home.”

 

“But a stranger, Papa!” 

 

“Not as much of a stranger as you think, pet.” The gentleman met Javert’s eyes across the open space while the murmur of the crowd swelled.

 

“It’s unnatural!” A voice called out.

 

“Where’s the harm?” another argued.

 

The volume continued to rise. Javert broke eye contact, forcing his breathing to remain calm and refraining from wiping the cold sweat from his palms.

 

The girl must have found something in their features as she nodded and kissed her father’s cheek. “I hope you will find your happiness, Papa,” she whispered before joining Marius in addressing the crowd. “Monsieurs, madams, mademoiselles, s’il vous plaît! Please!” Mixed emotions faced her, leaning into her next quiet words. “The people of Exial have long ago accepted the choices of others as none of their business. There is little enough happiness at times that another’s should not be begrudged because you do not agree. Ance feels more strongly and acts more stridently on issues.” There were nods in the crowd and angry growls began again. She continued, “ _but,_ but, we are now allies.”

 

“Allies must compromise. People of Ance, is this the issue you want to stand fast against?”

 

Heads turned, looking for a dissenter. 

 

“Very well then.” She turned back to those on the platform, smiling. “Monsieurs?”

 

The gentleman walked towards the priest, pivoted and waited patiently for Javert’s decision.

 

Javert, meanwhile, had tuned out the pretty words from, in his opinion, an empty-headed, ignorant child. Instead, he had retreated into himself, aware of his surroundings, but willing to examine the particulars at a later time. He acknowledged that if this was the only option, he was going to, of course, accept the gentleman that had volunteered. Insubordination was not an option to consider. He had his orders, for the sake of the law and order. After all, it was possible he could be mistaken. Jean Le Cric had died in his escape attempt over twenty years ago. Side glances revealed no malicious intent that he could discern, no simmering anger, resentment or any other emotion, he could associate so well with the Le Cric he remembered. 

 

But the desire to retch knotted his stomach and sweat trails now trickled down his back instead of just his palms, the feeling of dread building. The features were similar, but more lined, clean-shaven, the hair trimmed and silvering. Meeting his eyes had caused him to clench, the knot lurching, but he was too far to see the details lingering in his eyes.

 

It was time. Javert willed himself to move, placing one foot in front of the other until he stood on the opposite side of the priest, steadfastly training his gaze on the naturally jovial and currently slightly nervous, red face performing the ceremony. 

 

Everyone gathered knew it was answer enough, but the priest wet his lips and began. 

 

“Do you...” he paused.

 

“Javert,” Javert supplied. The priest waited for more. “Just Javert.”

 

Clearing his throat, he started again. “Do you, Javert,” his face reflected his discomfort, “vow your faithfulness and patience, your respect and loyalty, your support and your consul, in triumph and adversity, in health and sickness, through the remainder of this life and the next?”

 

For a moment, Javert felt trapped, realizing he might have to make a choice to abandon his word’s worth. Viciously, he silenced that line of thought. If Exial plotted, it was a meaningless oath from the beginning. If not, well...

 

He swallowed, dry-throated and rasped. “I do so vow, through the remainder of this life and the next.”

 

The priest turned to the gentleman. “And do you...”

 

The man watched Javert carefully as he calmly filled in, “Jean Valjean.”

 

The summer air froze in Javert’s lungs and he struggled not to cough as the priest finished.

 

“Do you, Jean Valjean,” the name rang like tolling bells in Javert’s mind, “vow your faithfulness and patience, your respect and loyalty, your support and your consul, in triumph and adversity, in health and sickness, through the remainder of this life and the next?”

 

“I do.”

 

“For as much as Javert and Jean Valjean have consented together in wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and our gathering, and thereto have pledged their faithfulness each to the other, and will pledge the same by the giving and receiving each of a ring,” he paused and watched the men nod, “by the authority invested in me as a minister of the gospel according the laws of the Church and _only_ the Church, I now pronounce that those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Let a kiss be the final seal of union, joined by very breath.”

 

A heartbeat passed in tableau. Two. And more.

 

Jean Valjean held out a hand. One Javert ignored, though he took a step forward and leaned slightly. Eyes showing too much white, he watched Valjean, _Le Cric!_ his mind screamed, do the same, the familiar face of a strange criminal coming too close.

 

But the kiss was over before it had begun. A flash of dry, slightly chapped flesh before Valjean straightened, the small smile he had worn most of the past quarter hour still gracing his features. If Javert had not been watching, he almost could have mistaken quick press of lips for a rough breeze. Unconsciously, his shoulders relaxed slightly. Uncertainty flared, maybe...Javert did not follow the thought, _I will have mine_ crescendoing. Suddenly, as eager as Javert had been to leave the jovial gathering, he feared the privacy to come.

 

Valjean turned to his daughter, wiping a tear from her cheek, he pulled her into a fierce hug, murmuring in her ear and shook her new husband’s hand, whispering to him as well. Marius paled, while his wife wore an indulgent grin. Valjean and his daughter had said their true goodbyes earlier that morning and, while he planned on visiting often, he was now eager to get home. They had travelled to the small village several days ago, joining the locals in the laughter and tension of decorating for the monumental, but unpretentious occasion. And if he crept out over the course of those nights to help negotiate some of the finer points, well, no one had to be the wiser. Ance’s social hierarchy was a much more intricate dance of rank; Exial little for the social niceties. The boom and bust economy dictated their weakness for the luxuries of the upper classes when available, but work, shelter and food were ever the greater concerns. Valjean had been frugal over the years, seeing no need for extravagances, only splurging for his beloved daughter. 

 

Finals words spoken, he turned back to his own new husband, the word sitting oddly on his chest. He was almost fondly amused to see that Javert had gone and gathered his things while waiting, efficient as ever. Meeting Javert’s eyes, he tilted his head, turning and heading towards the stables for horses, Javert following silently.

 

The ride back to the small town Valjean called home was a short, wordless journey, three or four hours at a good clip. The pair of chestnut geldings held to a ground-eating lope, each man lost in his own thoughts. Javert kept a sharp eye on their surroundings as they travelled, a natural habit from his years in police force, but other than a few birds, startled by the pounding hooves, peace reigned.

 

The town itself was something of a surprise when they arrived. Javert’s reports had all noted the ramshackle, rundown quality of many of Exial’s towns when money ran short and people let the towns go to seed, more involved in their struggle to survive than upkeeping appearances. But the town they reined the horses into had shingled or, at least freshly thatched, roofs, and clean, swept streets. Javert noted the presence of planted gardens behind more than a few cottages and none of the gaunt hunger he had come to associate with Exial’s illegal refugees. He saw with some disgust, even the beggar whining his lies and excuses on the corner seemed well-fed.

 

Sudden silence replaced the sharp clip of shod hooves against the cobblestones and Javert reluctantly returned his attention from the surrounding streets to see Valjean dismounting, handing his reins off to a wizened and hunched old man. He hardly seemed able to walk, let alone complete the feeding and cleaning a stable master must. Javert dubiously noted his shuffling gait.

 

“Maurice,” Valjean hailed him warmly. “How is little Luc? Does he still run a fever?”

 

“He fares much better, monsieur, merci. Thank you,” Maurice dipped his head, fingering the brim of his threadbare cap respectfully. Over his shoulder, he called, “Luc! Luc! Monsieur le Maire is returned!”

 

A slight, tow-headed teenager ran from the interior of the stables. “Here, grand-père!” He carefully took the leather straps from his grandfather, smiling cheekily at Valjean and looking expectantly at Javert, still astride his horse, bemused. 

 

Javert swallowed his reprimand about disrespectful boys, the title of “le Maire” commanding his attention. He flirted with disbelief, but it was possible this foul country allowed a criminal to become mayor. The notion made him grind his teeth at the blatant snub to the authority of the office. Dismounting, he passed his mount off as well and once again held his bag while Valjean chatted a few minutes more with the old man. Impatience warred with the steady current of dread he carried since the ceremony. Finally, Valjean bid the stable master farewell and motioned for Javert to follow that damnable little smile still on his lips. 

 

Javert remained a half-step behind, keen attention now trained on Valjean for any tricks, but it was only a few hundred feet before they turned to approach the front door of a house.

 

Safely hidden from Valjean’s view, Javert’s eyebrows rose before scrunching slightly in consideration. The house was perhaps a bit larger, the space to either neighbor a bit wider, but overall, it was the same stonework face and shingled roof as any other house they had passed. Neither ostentatious, nor a hovel, either of which experience told him he could expect from a criminal. He re-evaluated the other man’s clothing and pushed aside a ripple of uncertainty at what he observed. While the material was of good quality, it was not overly fine and simply cut, even the stitch work was straightforward and without a nod to current fashions. Not that Javert himself paid overmuch attention, far preferring serviceable and within his means. 

 

Striding forward with more confidence then he felt, he passed Valjean politely holding the door open and into his... _husband’s_ house. Headache forming from the tension, he quickly moved aside. 

 

Keeping Valjean in the corner of his vision, he looked around, but the foyer they stood in was plain. The walls whitewashed and floors smooth, but untreated, pine. Javert frowned slightly unable to see anything of note as he followed Valjean deeper into the house and warily up the stairs. Through the brief glimpses into open doorways they passed, he got the same sense of austerity, as though Valjean lived much as a monk, though a comfortable one. Plain, unadorned in every sense of the word. The only concession was the glint of the setting sun off what looked like a pair of silver candlesticks on a mantle.

 

All too soon for his peace, they stopped before another open doorway. Valjean swept his arm to encompass the room. 

 

“I thought you might like to settle in before anything else. Please take the chance to wash and relax. Later, if you’d like, I’ll give you the tour, such as it is and tomorrow the town?” Valjean’s certainty finally seemed to trail off as he finished.

 

Javert only gave a tight nod in response. But Valjean must have seen some flash of expression and paused to study him carefully. Javert berated himself for the desire to squirm under the scrutiny. 

 

“Very well.” Valjean inclined his head and walked back the way they had come. 

 

Javert stepped into the room and softly closed the door. He allowed himself to lean against it, close his eyes and take a single, deep breath. The fine trembling he could feel in his hands was unacceptable.

 

Opening his eyes, he set his bags on a small wardobe in the corner and stared suspiciously at the full wash basin. Had Valjean known he would be at the ceremony today? Had this all been planned? Javert snorted. A bit paranoid, he acknowledged. 

 

Beads of sweat started to form again as he refused to notice the bed on the other side of the room, washing his face and hands quickly.

 

Task finished, he searched the room only to find all the drawers were empty aside from a small bible. Puzzled, but slightly more comfortable that he was obviously in a guest bedroom, he allowed himself to sit on the bed.

 

Closing his eyes again, he cursed himself for being a coward. Here he sat, delaying the inevitable. He should knew there was evidence of a crime here somewhere and he needed to find it. He couldn’t stop the trembling any longer, at least in private. Was he even going to be in any shape to investigate Exial’s treachery when he was at the mercy of Le Cric? He should... 

 

His thoughts chasing themselves around, Javert dozed off in the heart of his enemy’s home.

 

_There was a hand covering his mouth and a knife at his throat. He had been so exhausted from the rainy double patrol after a botched raid on another faction of the Patron-Minette that he hadn’t woken quickly enough and now he could feel his hands locked behind him, wrists trapped in his own cuffs._

 

_The man in front of him smiled, lips full and cherry red, and never spoke._

 

_It was the man behind him that chuckled. “Ah, Gardien Javert,we are going to have some fun, non?” Javert felt a weight and the man’s legs straddling his thighs. “You put my brother in that hell you call a prison, monsieur, and he’s told me some very interesting stories, especially about Le Cric.” The man bent down to breathe in his ear. “Now, Le Cric is dead and you took my brother, so I think it’s time someone else collected on Le Cric’s payment.”_

 

_He paused, large, calloused hands lightly skimming up Javert’s hips and sides before curling into the waistband of his pants. Javert’s eyes widened, chest heaving in panic.“I will have mine.”_

 

_And with those words, he yanked down the cloth, ripping it with the force. His cock was already out, hard and hot against Javert’s own chilled flesh. He rutted against Javert’s backside, enjoying the flinching Javert could not control. Pulling back slightly, he spread him open, exposing his hidden reaches to the air and lined himself up. He transferred his hands to his hips and with a single, brutal thrust, slide home._

 

_Javert’s world exploded with pain. It was a hot brand, burning and splitting him in two. His screams were silent against the hand of the smiling man. The sharp pain of each thrust worst than the last as his vocal cords locked up and he desperately tried to dislodge the man on top of him. He could feel the finger-tipped bruises forming on his hips the slap of balls against his ass, but all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears._

 

_Suddenly, his hips were jerked up and the man leaned forward to bite his shoulder, hard enough that teeth broke through the skin. Warmth and a stinging burn curled deep in his body as the man came._

 

_Panting harshly, the man chuckled again. “Almost not much of a punishment, was it, Javert?”_

 

_Dazed with shock and pain, Javert didn’t understand what the man was talking about._

 

_The man, still buried deep in Javert, reached to his front and gripped the swollen cock he found, stroking it once, twice. “Looks like you enjoy it rough.”_

_Horror and shame rolled through Javert as the man continued to fondle and stroke him until his balls tightened and the low burn in his belly released onto the bed beneath him._

 

Javert woke up with a gasp, breathing heavily. The knock at the door came again.

 

“Javert?” Valjean called. “Supper is ready, Javert. Are you alright?”

 

“Yes.” he rasped. “Yes. Just a moment. I will be down in a moment."


End file.
